


a hundred visions and revisions

by bluebeholder



Series: One and the Same [2]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, timestamps
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:14:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23075329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: Timestamps for the "One and the Same" universe, most originally posted on Tumblr. Genre and location in the series will vary. "Choose Not To Use" only applies because any warnings will be applied by chapter within the fic.Title borrowed from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," by T.S. Eliot.
Relationships: Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age)
Series: One and the Same [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654444
Comments: 49
Kudos: 68





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Total fic rating is subject to change.**
> 
> [You can find me on Tumblr](https://wanderingnork.tumblr.com/); ask box is open and anon is on. Prompts are welcome and I'll do my best to fill them in a timely fashion.
> 
> 1: General Audiences, no warnings. Set somewhere before Chapter 8 of "each venture is a new beginning." Fenris has yet to fully realize his feelings, but he's definitely on the path toward attraction to Anders.

Another day, another argument.

It was Aveline who got Anders started this time, making the mistake of mentioning the arrest of a young apostate who’d been caught by the Guard while her parents tried to flee Kirkwall with her. Of course she’d been turned in to the Templars, and her parents imprisoned. It was an unwise move to mention that to Anders, Fenris feels, but Aveline has never been accused of tact.

“—was _eight_ ,” Anders storms, glaring at Aveline as if she personally delivered the apostate to the Templars. “This, this is why nobody trusts the City Guard! What parent would trust you, when this is how you treat families?”

“They were breaking the law, Anders,” Aveline says flatly. She looks straight ahead at the trail before them, as if to ignore Anders completely. “It is my job to uphold that law, no matter how much you’d like to see me flout it.”

Anders has a thunderous look on his face. “Ah yes, that’s right, _the law_. And if you and Donnic had a child who turned out to be a mage? Can you honestly say that you wouldn’t hesitate to turn your son or daughter over to the Templars?”

Fenris scowls. “That’s enough,” he says, before Aveline, stopping in her tracks and turning around with an angry flush to her face, can shout at Anders. “You two will bring every brigand in twenty miles down on our heads.”

“I thought you’d jump at the chance to get into it with him, Fenris,” Hawke says with a wink, glancing over her shoulder. “Usually provides us with some lovely entertainment.”

“Another day,” Fenris mutters, looking away. “Kaffas, Hawke, it’s too hot to argue. Let us find the scum and be done with it.”

“So you agree with Aveline,” Anders says, looking down at Fenris with the same furious expression. “You’d just toss a child to the Templars, rip them from their parents—”

“I just said I did not wish to argue, mage,” Fenris snaps. And he doesn’t. It’s been a week since their last falling-out, a week of cordiality that Fenris has found pleasant. He would prefer not to see that ruined now.

Anders rolls his eyes. “Well, it’s _wonderful_ to know the sort of people I’m traveling with,” he says, every word dripping with sarcasm. “You all care a great deal when it’s Tevinter slavers, but the second a mage is in trouble, you all look the other way.”

Hawke sighs. “You know, I thought it would be fun to listen to them, but I’m already bored. They say the same things every time. Come on, Aveline.”

The two warriors continue up the path, around a curve and out of sight. Fenris ignores them. “I see no similarity in the situations,” Fenris says, stopping to look up at Anders. “The mage child is a risk to all of Kirkwall as long as she is outside the Circle. The children we are searching for are helpless.”

“ _She’s eight_!” Anders stops, too, looking down at Fenris with fury etched across his face. “There is no child in the world who deserves what she’s going to suffer!”

Fenris has something he wants to say, but the thoughts fly apart. He has a rational reply, an argument he’s made a thousand times, but looking at Anders…Fenris can’t remember what he meant to say. Anders is beautiful in his anger, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, cheeks flushed. The stark midday sun turns his hair to gold, illuminates the scattering of freckles he’s acquired from many sunny trips to the Wounded Coast and Sundermount with Hawke, and catches brightly in his eyes.

One breath turns to another. Anders’ furious expression fades into something slightly confused, and softens into something else altogether. “Are you planning to yell at me, or not?” he asks, the heat gone out of his voice.

“Venhedis, mage…” Fenris steps back, tearing his gaze from Anders. “What would be the use?”

He gets a sigh for that. “I don’t know why I bother with any of you,” Anders says, as if to himself. He leans heavily on his staff, gazing out over the sea.

That hurts, somehow. Fenris looks back up at Anders, caught between frustration and absurdly wanting to comfort the mage. “You make me feel things I do not even _know_ how to describe,” he says.

“Ask Varric for his thesaurus,” Anders suggests bitterly. “You might find some synonyms for ‘hate’ in there.”

That hurts, too. ‘Hate’ isn’t the word Fenris wants. It’s something else, something that Fenris doesn’t have a word for. “No,” Fenris says. He turns back to the trail and starts walking again, the dusty road hot under his bare feet. “I suspect a thesaurus wouldn’t help me.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How about we take a collective break from the news? 
> 
> Also, my beta reader is going to be unable to beta-read the next short story in this series for an unspecified amount of time. Please keep her in your thoughts, folks. <3
> 
>  **2:** General Audiences, no warnings. Set late summer, 9:37 Dragon, while Anders and Fenris shepherd a whole lot of refugee mages north to safety in Rivain. Listen to [this saltarello by David Munrow, performed on the shawm](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5XZihrNu3io) if you'd like some theme music.

It’s the first time since leaving Kirkwall that Fenris has heard music. The sound of the shawm and tambourine and slightly-out-of-tune fiddle fills the campsite with a delightful clamor. All three of their musicians know some of the same songs, but at different tempos and in different keys. It’s a little discordant, but joyful.

After all, they’ve crossed the border between Antiva and Rivain at last. If they can ever be said to be safe, then this is the time to say it. The Chantry has a poor grip on Rivain. If Anders hasn’t been misled by his fellow members of the Mage Underground, this group of apostates will be safe here.

Hence the celebration.

Fenris had intended to stay on the outside of things, keeping an eye on the landscape around their campsite, but he’d been roped into a dance by one of the youngest mages, Lea, who’d attached herself firmly to him as a friend since they met outside Ostwick months ago.

“It’s just one dance. Everyone else is doing it,” she’d begged, enormous brown eyes wide, tugging on his hand. And how _exactly_ was Fenris supposed to say no to her, especially with Anders laughing and pulling at his other hand?

He’s no trained dancer, but the round dance is designed to let even the clumsiest enjoy themselves. The mages from Antiva and Orlais, whose Circles place a great deal of value on noble patronage and courtly manners, have a certain grace about them, but everyone else is tripping over themselves and each other, trying to learn the steps.

To his own surprise, Fenris is having _fun_.

Now that the musicians understand each other, the tempo just keeps rising with every new song. What was a slow dance, back and forth on the edge of a circle, has turned into something fast enough that several of the dancers can’t keep pace at all. Anders backed out three songs ago, claiming he can’t keep up; Fenris is determined to stick it out.

The beat of the tambourine keeps the remaining dancers in constant motion, accelerating as one dancer after another backs out of the circle, laughing and clutching their sides. Just at the point where Fenris thinks he’s going to have to stop, too, the music ends with a flourish. He’s panting, and bends over to put his hands on his knees and catch his breath.

A wave of chatter washes over him as he straightens up, the musicians begging for a break. While the merry argument goes on, Fenris stretches, backing out of the center of the camp again. Let the others continue: someone really does need to be watching the perimeter.

After a few moments, Anders comes up next to him. “You put everyone else to shame, dancing like that,” he says.

The music is striking up again. Fenris runs his hand through his sweat-damp hair. “It was no great matter.”

“You looked like a professional,” Anders says.

Fenris looks up at him, askance. “Are you teasing me?”

Anders looks affronted. “I wouldn’t lie to you, especially when watching you kick up your heels like that made me…”

“Made you…?” Fenris prompts after a moment.

“ _Well_ ,” Anders says with a smile, taking Fenris’ hand, “I’ve rarely seen anyone look quite as attractive as you did dancing.”

Fenris feels himself flush with pleased embarrassment and is glad of the darkness hiding the look from Anders. “Impossible. Surely you’ve seen others.”

“I wasn’t involved with other dancers,” Anders says. He leans in a little bit, the firelight throwing sparks in his eyes. “But I _am_ involved with you.”

“Out with it, mage,” Fenris says, an unbidden smile pulling at his mouth. “You only flirt with me when you want something.”

Anders leans down the rest of the way, the tip of his nose brushing Fenris’. “I would very much appreciate a kiss,” he says, “seeing as I’ve had to watch you spinning around being impossibly beautiful all night.”

“Flatterer,” Fenris says.

“If it gets your lips on mine, then happily,” Anders says with a grin.

Fenris pulls Anders down into a kiss without further ado.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3: T, canon-typical violence and depiction of a near-drowning. [Loosely inspired by this beautiful art by PaleCaesar on deviantart](https://www.deviantart.com/palecaesar/art/Dragon-Age-II-Sweeten-The-Pot-835507976). Set between Chapter 8 and Chapter 9 of “each venture is a new beginning." Fenris has realized he has feelings for Anders, but they haven't spoken about it yet.

The day is a fine one, a sunny one, and a good one. Anders is happy to be out of Kirkwall for a while, the sunshine warm on his face and the wind ruffling his hair and the feathers of his coat. Sundermount is beautiful, green and verdant and so vibrantly alive. Even if they’re on an errand for Merrill involving that blasted Eluvian of hers, Anders’ spirits can’t be dampened. 

He’s left to his thoughts, for the most part. Hawke and Merrill are talking and holding hands, looking like the sweetest of lovebirds. Fenris, as he always is lately, ridiculous elf, is busy brooding and staring off into the distance and occasionally at Anders. Anders doesn’t know what to make of it, but he doesn’t bother trying to understand. 

(Truth be told, he keeps staring at Fenris too.)

They’re hiking along a cliff near the foot of Sundermount, a steep drop on their left plunging down to a small but raging and deep river, fast and cold as all the rivers coming out of the Vimmark Mountains are. Their sources are in the small glaciers high above, rendering the water utterly frigid. It’s a beautiful view, the forest on one side and the river on the other. As a result of the distraction, none of them notice the bear until it comes roaring out of the woods at them. 

Anders stumbles backward and out of the bear’s path, sliding on the trail and falling heavily, staff cracking across his shoulder painfully as he goes. The bear is massive, bigger than any bear Anders has seen on Sundermount, foam dripping from its massive toothy jaws. _Rabid_. 

Merrill’s reflexes are faster than Anders’: she gets off a spirit bolt but in the sudden panic the shot goes wide and smashes into a tree twenty feet away. The bear is between Anders and his companions and already turning on him as he stumbles upright, the bear’s roar shaking the ground. 

He’s got his staff in hand and energy surging through him, ready to freeze the bear in place, but then a lightning-fast blur flickers in front of Anders. Lyrium sings in the air and Anders’ breath is stolen by Fenris’ sheer speed. The elf ducks past the bear, shoving Anders out of the bear’s path and into the weeds beside the path. 

“Look _out_!” Anders shouts uselessly. 

Fenris turns too slow. He doesn’t get his sword halfway from his scabbard before a massive paw swats him in the side. With a cry, Fenris goes sprawling across the narrow path, scrabbling for some kind of purchase, and then he’s tumbling over the edge of the cliff, disappearing for view. 

Anders only remembers flashes of the fight. Sending a jet of cold at the bear, freezing it to the ground. Merrill summoning up stony armor and charging into the fray herself. The bear roaring, stumbling, unable to keep up with the mages. Hawke throwing aside sword and armor to dive down the cliff herself, shouting for Fenris. The bear finally falling, out of its rabid misery. 

But there’s no time to breathe. As the bear drops, Anders is already running for the cliff edge. Below, a hundred yards downstream, he sees Hawke towing Fenris to the bank–and Fenris isn’t moving. 

Merrill follows Anders down the cliff, both of them heedless of the danger, slipping and sliding on loose rocks. Anders hits the ground running, splashing through the cold shallows to reach Hawke and Fenris. He drops to his knees beside them, already reaching for Fenris.

“Is he–” Merrill starts, hands over her mouth.

“Hit his head,” Hawke gasps, slumping on the sand. Her lips are blue with cold despite the warm day. 

Blood is gradually soaking Fenris’ silver-white hair. He’s not moving and his lips, too, are darker than they should be. He’s breathing, but shallowly and wetly. When Anders checks his pulse, it’s dull and sluggish. 

Anders concentrates only on Fenris. He pours healing energy into Fenris, repairing any damage to his head, clearing water from his lungs, repairing ribs the bear cracked, and warming his body. Near-drownings are Anders’ least favorite things to heal, especially when it’s someone he–someone he–

After a far-too-long time, Fenris finally opens his eyes. “Anders?” he croaks. 

“Andraste’s ashes, what were you thinking?” Anders demands, relief surging through him. “Jumping in front of a rabid bear–do you have a _death wish_?”

He snatches up Fenris’ hand, to check his pulse. Fenris’ fingers curl a little around Anders’ hand, which makes Anders’ breath catch a little. “I was trying to rescue you, mage,” Fenris says. “Or were you too self-absorbed to notice that?”

“Well, he can insult you, he’s fine,” Hawke says. She smiles, wet hair still plastered to her face, and squeezes Fenris’ shoulder. “You scared me.”

“My apologies,” Fenris says. He hasn’t let go of Anders’ hand. 

“Sorry, Merrill, but we’re done on Sundermount unless you want Fenris here to die of medical neglect,” Anders says, seeking refuge in chatter. “I want him back in the clinic for observation–and if you argue with me, elf, I’ll dump you back in the river–a drowning is dangerous after the water’s out of the chest, you know.”

Hawke nods. “Wouldn’t do to lose you after saving you, eh?”

“Can he walk?” Merrill asks. “He doesn’t look very good.”

Fenris opens his mouth to speak, but Anders gets there first. “He can’t,” Anders says firmly, “and if anyone has extra clothes, he needs to be warm.”

“He is _right here_ ,” Fenris mutters, but lets them fuss over him anyway. 

In the end, Hawke elects to carry Fenris back to Kirkwall, if Merrill and Anders are willing to carry her gear. Neither woman has appropriate clothes: all of Hawke’s are soaked, and Merrill doesn’t wear extra layers in such a warm time of year. So Anders donates his coat. 

The garment nearly swallows Fenris, whose frame is generally a little smaller than Anders’, though his shoulders are broad and his body athletic. It’s too long on him, coming to his knees, sleeves over his hands, and the feathered mantle looks nearly ridiculous. Yet…

“Your coat smells like elfroot,” Fenris says, as Hawke sweeps him effortlessly up in her arms, one arm supporting his back and the other under his knees. 

“I use it rather a lot,” Anders says. He tries for affronted, but can’t quite make it.

Fenris doesn’t answer, only closes his eyes. Hawke starts down the path, back toward Kirkwall, with Anders right beside her and Merrill in front. Anders keeps an eye on Fenris as they travel, just in case his condition changes. 

Halfway back, Anders sees something that makes hope flutter to life inside him. Fenris turns his head and presses his face into the feathers of Anders’ coat, and his expression relaxes into something that could almost be a smile.

Anders wonders what it would be like, if Fenris were to do that while Anders was wearing the coat. If Fenris did that while Anders was holding him in his arms. If…

But _that_ is just his stupid heart talking.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out being trapped at home is really good for my story productivity. 
> 
> 4: G, no warnings. Set at an indeterminate point after "each venture is a new beginning," when Anders and Fenris are a couple and have the chance to relax for an evening.

“There, in the southernwestern sky,” Anders says, pointing over Fenris and trying not to smack him in the face on accident, “that’s the constellation I’d guess you’re named for.”

The collection of stars, just a little brighter than the hundreds of thousands of others teeming in the sky above, is still quite evident, right down to the faintly red star glowing at its center. “What’s it called?” Fenris asks.

“Fenrir,” Anders says. “The wolf.”

“Of course,” Fenris says dryly, lying back down on the grass, arms folded behind his head.

“Has quite the interesting origin, if you believe the Chantry astronomers,” Anders says, settling down again. He’s on his side, facing Fenris; when Fenris turns his head, Anders can see the shape of his face elegantly illuminated by starlight. His hair is truly silver in this light. Breathtaking.

“Oh?”

“It’s the White Wolf,” Anders says. “Some stories say its name comes from the impossibly ancient tale of a wolf fleeing hunters by escaping into the sky and turning into stars. Fitting, that.”

With a sigh, Fenris shrugs. “It always comes back to that, doesn’t it?”

“I always liked the darker version better,” Anders says. “That it’s the elven god Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf, who cast his own image into the stars as a reminder of his presence and power and to give nightmares to all who see it. Also seems rather fitting, doesn’t it?”

Lyrium glows in the darkness. Anders hears the soft singing of it, the song Justice assures him is the song of the Fade itself. Fenris’ voice is amused. “Do I look like the stars?”

Anders smiles. “You know, love, as beautiful as you are, even you can’t quite compare to the stars.”

“I would have called you a liar if you’d said yes,” Fenris says with a soft laugh.

Silence falls. Anders returns his gaze to the stars overhead. On this fully moonless night, far away from towns or cities, the stars are perfectly visible in all their glory. It’s been a long time since Anders really looked at the sky. Back in Ferelden, he’d only taken a few chances to do astronomy work–-that was always Karl’s province, not his. And then he’d been in Kirkwall, living underground in a city full of bright lights, with no time to watch the sky.

Watching the stars like this, in the middle of an empty field with Fenris warm and close beside him, is far better than anything Anders could have imagined.

A streak of light to the east catches Anders’ eye. “What was that?” Fenris asks, sitting up and looking to the east.

“Shooting star,” Anders says, propping himself up on his elbows. He watches the sky carefully. “Sometimes they come alone, but other times–”

“There!” Fenris says, pointing. Another streak of light flashes across the sky, and another, and–

The sky bursts alive, shooting stars flashing across the sky in great silver streaks from a point somewhere to the east. There are hundreds, filling the sky with light, illuminating the world in white. It’s silent, a storm of light making no sound at all as the sky explodes.

Through it all, Anders can only stare.

It goes on and on, time slowing to a standstill as the stars fall. The sight doesn’t grow any less wondrous, but after a few moments, Anders remembers how to breathe again. He rests back on the grass, not looking away from the spectacle overhead.

“Sic itur ad astra,” Fenris whispers. His hand finds Anders’, their fingers lacing together.

Anders squeezes Fenris’ hand. “What?”

“Thus, you shall go to the stars.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this fic inspires you and you're so inclined/have the opportunity, PLEASE visit a Dark Sky Park and view the stars as they're meant to be, without light pollution. 
> 
> “Fenrir” is one of Thedas’ constellations. Yes, Anders gets some of the lore a bit muddled, but that’s how stories go. I used a sky map by binkyproductions to estimate where it would be located.
> 
> The meteor frequency in this spectacular shower depicted here was inspired by the 1833 Leonid shower, which was estimated at its peak to have over 100,000 meteors falling per hour–-1,667 meteors PER MINUTE. Anecdotes from the time suggest that the sky truly did look like it was exploding.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [Lesetoilesfous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesetoilesfous/profile), for the prompt "plucking a peach off a tree" for Fenris and Anders.
> 
> Set shortly after "rolled by the rolling stars," midsummer, 9:37 Dragon.

“Fenris,” Anders says, wincing as Fenris’ heel digs into his shoulder, “I know you want to pick the entire tree, but we really shouldn’t stay too long.”

“Yes, yes,” is the distracted reply Anders gets. He cranes his head back a little, watching Fenris, a basket hanging from his arm, stretch to reach a peach just out of his reach. If Anders weren’t the person Fenris had decided to use as a ladder, Anders would have enjoyed the sight. As it is...

Anders holds tighter to Fenris as he shifts his weight. “And you call me irresponsible,” he mutters.

“I’m nearly done,” Fenris says.

With a sigh, Anders leans against the tree a little and does his best not to drop Fenris. At least, if he insists on being made of rocks, the man has impeccable balance. Even if Anders didn’t hold onto him, Fenris probably wouldn’t fall.

They’re on their way back to from a meeting with members of the Mage Underground in Hambleton. It had been very productive, as far as Anders is concerned, and there’s been a certain carefree sense to their return trip. Fenris, usually irascible where the Mage Underground is concerned, seems to have been infected by the warm summer sunshine and the prospect of sleeping under the stars with Anders. As much as Anders cares for the company of mages they’ve fallen in with, it’s nice to be alone with Fenris for a while.

Today, a day and a half from their destination, they’d stumbled across an unguarded peach orchard owned by some wealthy aristocrat or another. Anders would have been content to pluck a few peaches to eat on their way, but Fenris insisted on stopping to pick more. He’d found a discarded basket half overgrown with weeds under one of the trees and now, well. Here they are.

Anders closes his eyes and tips his head back a little, letting the sun wash over him. Summers out of Kirkwall, far from the coast, are a little drier, a little more pleasant. A cool breeze ruffles his hair, carrying the light scent of ripe peaches. With his feather mantle and coat off, it’s quite a pleasant day.

“I have enough,” Fenris says, startling Anders from his contemplation.

“Pass the basket down,” Anders says, cautiously letting go of Fenris and reaching up for the basket. It’s _heavy_ , full to the brim with peaches. There must be twenty at least, perhaps more.

Free of the basket, Fenris jumps lightly down from Anders’ shoulders. Anders sighs in relief, setting down the basket to rub his sore shoulders. At that, Fenris looks mildly abashed. “I hope I did not permanently injure you?”

“Takes a lot more than you standing on me to do that,” Anders says. He stretches a little, the soreness already fading. “Had fun up there?”

Already strapping on his sword in its scabbard, Fenris smiles. His eyes shine in the summer sun, and Anders feels his breath catch a little. “Very much,” he says, hefting his pack on his back with gauntlets still inside and picking up the basket.

“I hope you’re planning to share all of those?” Anders asks, shrugging on and fastening his coat again.

They set off side by side through the orchard again. The grass is tall enough to reach halfway up Anders’ boots and it looks like Fenris is wading through silky green-gold water. The orchard is more shade than sun; these are mature old trees, tall and full.

“I believe I picked enough for everyone to have at least half a peach,” Fenris says. He pauses under a low-hanging branch and plucks two more peaches, tossing one easily to Anders. “Here. For us to share.”

“That’s cheating,” Anders says, smiling, turning the fuzzy peach over in his hands. It’s warm from the sun, a beautiful ripe gold, and he can’t resist taking a bite. The fruit is perfectly sweet and ripe. He closes his eyes to savor the taste. Beside him, Fenris makes a really _pleasant_ sound as he enjoys his own peach.

Until they’ve reached the edge of the orchard and the road beyond, there’s no talk between them. Anders licks his fingers and glances at Fenris to see him doing the same thing. He feels an odd pang at the sight: Fenris looks very young in this light, and very happy.

“I’ll keep the pits,” Anders says, taking Fenris’ from him and tucking it in a pouch on his belt. “They’ve got a few good uses.”

“Of course,” Fenris says, with a fondness that even now makes Anders’ heart leap a little bit.

It seems they’re both hesitant to leave the orchard behind, standing still on the edge of the road with the breeze whispering in the trees behind them. Anders would like very much to stay a while longer. There’s a good chance they’ll be caught if they stay, but...still.

“I have some odd memories of stealing fruit from a nobleman’s orchard,” Fenris says after a moment, looking out across the tilled fields across the road. “Not very clear, of course, but the sun on that day must have been much like the sun on this one. I remember it on my face.”

“It was a sunny day like this when I first tasted a peach,” Anders says. “I was...fifteen, I think? I’d broken out of the Circle, running for my bloody life, and stumbled right into some orchard. They weren’t good peaches like these, very small and bitter. Ferelden doesn’t have the right climate for them. But they tasted like they came right out of the Golden City to me.”

Fenris glances down at the basket on his arm, then up at Anders. “I hope these will bring memories just as fine for both of us.”

Anders leans down and kisses Fenris then, light and warm. “I think they will,” he says. The tips of their noses brush together as Fenris pulls Anders down into a second kiss, longer than the first.

It tastes like peaches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peaches grow best in USDA zones 5-9 or so, or at temperature minimums ranging from about -15F to 30F (-26C to -1C). I imagine that the southernmost parts of the Free Marches, north of the Vimmark Mountains (northern parts of Ostwick and Markham, southern Starkhaven, and most of Ansburg and Wycome), fall into that minimum 30F/-1 range, or just slightly lower. Additionally, as far as time of year goes, peaches start to ripen in late June/early July.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G, soft angst
> 
> Set **W A Y** in the future in 9:40 Dragon. For reference, at the time of writing this bit, I have just posted a fic taking place in late summer, 9:37 Dragon. In this fic, the Mage-Templar War is in full swing. The Conclave will take place roughly a year from now. 
> 
> Contains some hints of future events, including a couple that are fairly sizeable spoilers...but whatever XD

“If you’d told me six years ago that I’d be fighting beside _you_ in an all-out war against the Chantry,” Anders says, “I would have laughed in your face.”

“So would I,” Fenris says.

He looks up at the stars. In their dark campsite—there can be no fires, not when they are on the move behind Templar lines—the stars are brighter than Fenris has seen in a long while. Here on the plains of eastern Nevarra, there are no trees or hills to obstruct the view.

While the others sleep, Fenris took the middle watch of the night. Anders joined him, and now here they are, lying on Anders’ bedroll while listening to the night sounds of the plains. Crickets chirp all around, and distantly there is the cry of some night bird. Anders’ head rests on Fenris’ shoulder, heavy and comforting.

“I still sometimes wonder about it,” Anders says.

“About what?” Fenris asks, startled from his contemplations.

Anders speaks softly. “You,” he says. “If you want to be here or if you’re just...”

The words sting. “How many times do I have to reassure you that I want to be here?” Fenris asks, just as soft. “I have chosen this cause over and over.”

“You wouldn’t have chosen it when we met.”

“I didn’t like you when we met,” Fenris says. “Clearly, _that_ has changed.”

For a long moment, Anders is silent. “You’ve been a more faithful friend to this cause than some mages,” he says at last. “I only want to make sure that it isn’t...uncomfortable.”

Fenris closes his eyes. “Only in that the ground is uncomfortable,” he says lightly.

“You know what I mean.”

He does know what Anders means, but...Fenris decides to prevaricate a little. “We avoided being indentured into Tevinter servitude,” he says. “I am still glad you listened to me.”

“And I still maintain that they did something to Fiona, to make her do that,” Anders mutters.

“Whether she was influenced or merely desperate or both,” Fenris says, waving a hand in dismissal, “the end result is the same.”

Silence falls for a little while. The earlier peace, though, is marred by that old bitterness Fenris feels thinking of their time in Kirkwall. He has come to terms with many things, but there are some things, some words, he has never quite been able to dislodge from his heart.

It seems Anders is thinking the same thing. “I _am_ sorry to bring this up,” he says, somber. “I still feel guilty. For the things I said to you when we met.”

“There is no need for that,” Fenris says. There certainly _is_ a need for it, but he doesn’t want to get into it now. “If you and I were consumed by guilt for what we’ve said and done at every turn, we would never be able to move again.”

“I didn’t mean most of them,” Anders says. One long, warm hand rests flat over Fenris’ heart. “The words, I mean. I was afraid. Angry. I still shouldn’t have said them.”

Fenris nods. “I _know_ ,” he says. He sighs, breathing out some of that old anger. “Do you think I would be here if I still resented you, amatus?”

“Fair,” Anders says.

“I have come to terms with much,” Fenris says. He toys with the grass beside him, brushing the edges of the narrow, sharp strands. “It can be strange. But I have made my choices.”

Fenris feels Anders shift against him in the dark, and then a long arm is draped across his chest. Warm fingers wrap around his. “I am more grateful than I can say,” Anders whispers. “And I love you more than I can say.”

Carefully, Fenris turns on his side. The stars and the moons are bright enough that he can easily see Anders, mere inches apart as they are. His face, made hard and sharp by these years of war, is softer in the night. Sadder. Blue light flickers in the corners of his eyes, as it always does now. Fenris thinks that he must look much the same. His lyrium is never truly still anymore. Sometimes he can hear its singing himself.

“Get some rest, amatus,” Fenris says. He brushes Anders’ loose hair from his face, lightly stroking the fine strands. “I will handle the end of the watch.”

Anders offers a faint smile, the same as every smile Fenris has seen him wear of late. It’s tired. They’re both tired. And even now, as far as they’ve come, Fenris wonders if their early days will forever haunt them both. If there will always be gulfs between them that cannot be bridged.

But as Anders curls closer in sleep, the gentle blue light of Justice crackling across his skin as he sleeps, Fenris can’t deny that there is nothing he wants more than to hold his lover as he does now.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7: Gen, briefest mention of Danarius (one sentence).
> 
> Set in the summer of 9:38 Dragon, so you'll see some reference to the events of 9:38 Dragon (specifically the disbanding of the College of Enchanters). But it's mostly just fluffy domesticity!

The crow of the rooster in the yard far below wakes Fenris just as it does every morning. He blinks for a moment, as the blue glow off his sleeping lover’s skin fades as Anders wakes. With a disgruntled sound, Anders half turns and sends a mote of fire drifting to the wick of their candle clock, lighting the wick, before turning back over and putting his face in the pillow.

It’s a little more than two hours before dawn. The castle rooster is among the most reliable creatures Fenris has ever met, signaling the cue for early risers to begin their waking. Around dawn, the cows will wake and begin lowing, demanding that someone milk them; shortly thereafter, most of the rest of the inhabitants of the castle will begin their days with the rising sun.

For Fenris, it’s far preferable to wake with the rooster. He can take time in the morning, enjoying lying lazily in bed. It still (and perhaps always will) fees fantastically decadent. Anders is of the same mind. Thus the candle clock: in half an hour, the nail will fall and signal that they should rise.

At the moment, though, Fenris is pleased to turn on his side and curl up against Anders, one arm draped over his waist, head resting on Anders’ shoulder. He’s very warm, almost too much for the summer night, but Fenris doesn’t mind.

With a sigh, Anders moves a little, turning on his own side so he can tuck Fenris under his chin. Fenris closes his eyes, breathing slowly in the security of Anders’ arms. Anders sleepily traces patterns on Fenris’ back, soothing enough that Fenris manages to half doze off again.

Just before he can truly fall asleep, the nail in the candle clock falls with a small clatter into the metal candleholder.

“We should get rid of that Blighted candle,” Anders mutters, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

“And then we would never get out of bed,” Fenris replies, leaning up to lightly kiss Anders’ cheek.

Years of practice have made sure that Fenris is not dazed on getting out of bed, nor is Anders. Before dressing, Fenris devotes some time to morning stretches, meant to keep him limber and help the pain from his lyrium. In only his leggings, he slowly moves through various stretches, savoring the way any tension releases and leaves him feeling fresh and alert.

While Fenris does that, Anders brings the candle clock to their small, cloudy mirror to shave. His shaving knife is sharp, but not so much as to give the perfectly clean look so fashionable among the nobility of the Free Marches. Most mages here sport well-trimmed beards or, like Anders, have a perpetual look of stubble. On Anders, at least, Fenris finds it quite appealing.

Holding a stretch meant for his back, Fenris watches Anders meticulously shave his sharp jaw, working quickly and delicately. It’s still a novelty--Fenris has never been able to grow a beard, nor would he wish to, and so has exactly no experience in shaving himself or anyone else. (Danarius would have been frankly stupid to let Fenris near his neck at _any_ time in their acquaintance.)

“You’re staring,” Anders says, wiping his face down and smiling over his shoulder at Fenris.

“You make a fine sight, amatus.” Fenris straightens up and begins pulling on his tunic. If he makes a bit of a show of it, can he be blamed?

Anders dresses, too, and while he fastens on his boots Fenris quickly braids back Anders’ ever longer hair. “More gray every day,” he comments, running his fingers through the fine strands.

“Old before my time, love,” Anders says with a laugh.

The next nail in the candle clock falls, signaling an hour to dawn. Since he is working in the field today, Fenris goes unarmed save for a dagger on his belt, and in the summer heat Anders has dispensed with a heavy coat. Side by side they go down to the hall, where the other earliest risers of the castle are eating breakfast.

Arnfried, chief farmer, is there eating and speaking quietly with Shana (who will be setting out early to track the antelope migrating through the area). Old Maris, who barely sleeps at all, sits by the kitchen fire reading a book. Ostar and Flyssa, taking the morning watch on the walls, sit talking together though Flyssa looks like she’s going to fall asleep at the table. Bette Paine is putting porridge on the fire that as usual Fenris will not get to eat. It’s too early for that, so he and Anders, like the other early risers, have the leftover stew and bread from last night’s dinner. Hearty food, but on occasion Fenris rather wishes he could have something _hot_ in the morning.

But he’s helping Arnfried today, starting with the cows and then moving on to the fields. So Fenris doesn’t complain as he sits by Anders and eats quietly. Neither of them are much inclined to talk this morning. More bad news came in from Cumberland: with the College of Enchanters disbanded, Grand Enchanter Fiona has been rendered virtually impotent in her efforts to handle growing tension. Anders has called a small council today of the few former Senior Enchanters here, intending to discuss what they can do at their great distance. He’s in quite a grim mood. And Fenris prefers to take mornings slow and quietly anyway, so he isn’t bothered.

As Arnfried gets up, going to the doors, Fenris stands too. “I hope today goes well,” he says, leaning down to kiss Anders on the temple.

Anders turns his head at the last moment, kissing Fenris on the mouth. “Don’t get too burned out there, love,” he says.

“I intend not to,” Fenris says. He smiles and tugs lightly on Anders’ braid. “I will see you this evening.”

And off he goes. Others are waking now, the watch on the walls changing, livestock demanding attention, fields needing tending. There’s much to be done, but it’s always easier to have a good day when the morning has gone so well. It feels right. The way that things ought to be.

For the first time in a very long time, Fenris can truly say he is happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Candle clocks are a simple and easy form of timekeeping. A candle whose rate of burning is known is marked with intervals of time (interval depending on where it was made) and lit, allowing the general time to be known. The first candle clocks were used in China, with such clocks being invented independently in Europe for use in medieval churches. Turning them into a timer just required pushing a nail into the desired interval, as you see here. 
> 
> The most interesting candle clocks were invented by the Muslim inventor Ismail al-Jazari, who used specialized mechanisms to improve the accuracy of timekeeping, and included a proper dial to display the time. (al-Jazari was also responsible for the building of extraordinary automata that played music, a “castle clock” that is probably the earliest programmable analog computer, the first crankshaft, and the first use of metal casting in molds for accurate part construction. The man was a genius.


End file.
